


Do you think your boys club will crumble just because of a loud mouth girl

by Fourteen_thirty_two



Category: Cold Blood - Fandom, Prime Suspect (UK)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2018-12-20 14:12:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11922582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fourteen_thirty_two/pseuds/Fourteen_thirty_two
Summary: A Cold Blood/Prime Suspect crossover AUThis is just a retired Jane Tennison and Eve Granger, and their two labradors, finding their own particular brand of domesticity in the English countryside.





	1. Prologue: A retirement

**Author's Note:**

> I've messed with the timeline a little here. Eve has transferred from Manchester and Jane had returned to work after her 'retirement' in PS7.

“…And anyway, I’m not retired, I’m consulting.” An indignant Jane Tennison calls out from her perch at the head of a large, scrubbed oak table. Dressed in striped linen pyjamas, she is gesticulating animatedly with a half-slice of toast. Her reading glasses are perched precariously atop her head, holding her silvery blonde hair away from her eyes, and a half-finished crossword lays on the table before her. There is fresh coffee bubbling away on the Aga behind her, filling the kitchen with a warm, rich aroma.

 

Eve Granger drops her bag on the other end of the table; she’s running late, already. Her hair is a little dishevelled and her blouse not fully buttoned. She runs a hand over her hair to smooth it whilst looking carefully around the kitchen.

“And what are you consulting on today, darling?” She gestures towards the crossword.

“The Times.”

“The Times.” Eve nods, smiles affectionately as Jane frowns at her, still waving the toast around. “I’m waiting for calls,” she explains.

“Of course you are,” Eve agrees, spying the very thing she’s been searching for. She leans across the table and carefully pulls a manilla folder out from under Jane’s folded newspaper. She catches Jane’s sigh and looks up. Jane is smiling as she takes in the view down Eve’s unbuttoned blouse. Biting into the toast, Jane’s eyes sparkle with mischief.

“Enough of that.” Eve commands, “Save that thought for later. I’m late.”

“Gov,” Jane confirms with a nod, ostensibly returning her focus to her crossword, but very much enjoying the flush to Eve’s cheeks as she does so.

 

Jane took retirement on her doctor’s advice. It wasn’t a heart attack. It was…an event. It was a huge bloody wake up call is what it was. The force she joined was changing, and her body, unyielding from the years of smoking and late night drinking – all night drinking – refused to carry her through. She felt betrayed. She felt put out to bloody pasture. But then there was Eve. Eve who sat down wearily beside Jane at her retirement party, slide her a glass of single malt, raised her own glass and said “Fuck ‘em. Fuck ‘em all.” Eve who was brilliant, and funny, and a little bit fragile. Eve who was beautiful and intense and sexy as hell. Who Jane had casually flirted with – something she hadn’t done for years – and asked her to go home with her. Eve who said yes.

 

And now she watches Eve slide into the driver’s seat of her car on their driveway, throw her bag onto the passenger seat, and she drive away. As Jane watches her go she laughs at herself: “Tennison, you’re ridiculous,” because even the way Eve handled a car was intoxicating.


	2. I am so sick of consequence and the look on your face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Thanks so much for the messages of encouragement. I hope you enjoy.

It was the set of DSI Tennison’s shoulders that made Eve grab the bottle of single malt and two glasses, filled with ice, and make her way over to the free bar stool next to her. She understood the desire to isolate oneself, but no one should drink alone at their own leaving party. 

Tennison was myth, she was legend in the MET. She was the one person Eve had felt uncharacteristically starstruck by when she first arrived. And Tennison did not disappoint. Poised, ambitious, occasionally terrifying; Eve had harboured hopes of working as Jane’s second-in-command on the Murder Squad, eventually, but had been given lead on Cold Cases instead. She couldn’t argue, it’s where she’d made a name for herself in Manchester, after all, it was a natural progression. Still. 

She poured whiskey into the two heavy glasses, and slid one along the wooden surface of the bar to Jane. Jane looked up, took Eve in with a languid look which bordered on the obscene, then down to the glass. Already drunk, Eve assumed. 

It was common knowledge that Tennison’s departure was under duress. She wasn’t happy to retire, and Eve could understand that. What would she retire to? Tennison lived for the job. She was the job. She was of a generation of women whose utter, single-minded devotion to duty was the only way to prove they were serious. To be considered equal, you had to be better. Eve understood. Since the disintegration of her marriage and the estrangement of her children, Eve felt very much that the job, her one constant, was the thing she struggle most without. The thought scared her.  
“With respect, Gov, fuck ‘em,” Eve said, a hint of a Mancunian accent still detectable, to Jane’s delight, “Fuck ‘em all.”  
“Now that…” Jane tilts her glass, “I can drink to.”

“Eve,” Eve offers her hand, “Eve Granger.”  
Jane raises an eyebrow, looks down at her drink, doesn’t take Eve’s hand. “Oh, I know who you are,” she says, voice laced with amusement and something…something else. Eve nods. “Was hoping to poach you for my squad when you were first transferred. That was until I met you at that press briefing. I’m afraid I thought you’d be somewhat of a…” she looks at Eve pointedly, like she’s trying to find the right word, “…a distraction.”

Then Jane sees it: that tiny contraction of the lower lip, the tension in Eve’s jaw as she sets it, determinedly. Years of interviewing criminals attunes you to these micro expressions. Little cracks that give you an in. But Jane doesn’t want to exploit Eve’s vulnerability, she just wants to make sure it’s still there. That Eve hasn’t become as desensitised by the job as she knows she has herself. As jaded. Jane smiles to herself.

“If you don’t mind me saying, Gov, I’d have expected that from them,” she nods towards the boys club, holding up the other end of the bar, laughing uproariously; drunk. “But I’d not have expected that from you. I assure you I am perfectly good at my job. Excellent, even. And if the likes of that lot can’t—“  
“Oh you misunderstand me.” Jane interjects. She’s joking, mostly, but she can’t help but be endeared by this indignant, fiery display. Eve had a reputation for being calm, level-headed. Sensible. Not weak, but certainly softer than Jane could have ever got away with. “I couldn’t care less about how distracted the men on the squad would be. That’s their problem. They were usually distracted by something, anyway, those who were given to that sort of lack of focus. I meant me. You’d be a distraction for me.”

Eve, visibly taken aback, chokes slightly on her drink, “I—“ she begins, flustered.

“Oh don’t be coy, DI Granger, you know how attractive you are. You’ve probably spent your entire career trying to make sure you’re promoted because of your brilliance, not your face, but that doesn’t change the fact that your face is incredibly…agreeable,” She holds Eve’s gaze, clocks the colour rising in her cheeks. 

“Was there a professional compliment hidden in that entirely non-pc statement, DSI Tennison?” Eve asks, sipping her scotch, eyes flashing with mirth. Jane laughs.

Jane allows Eve to draw from her stories of incident-room tomfoolery and unanticipated breakthroughs. They laugh a little, and Jane pours Eve another drink. 

As last orders are called, the drunken roars from the men at the other end of the bar begin to swell, filling the space and making it feel oppressive. Jane leans slightly towards Eve and says, quietly. “I’d like to take you home with me.”

Eve stares down at her glass, swirling the liquid and ice around and Jane waits. Jane waits and watches. She admires Eve’s long fingers, the fine bones of her wrist. She watches Eve tip back her head and drain her glass, admires the exposed smooth skin of her neck. Jane watches Eve run the tip of her tongue along her lower lip, sucking the last traces of whiskey from her skin. And then Eve, coat draped over one arm, stands , turns and meets Jane’s gaze.

“Good.” Jane says, simply. Then, nodding towards the rest of the bottle of scotch on the bar, “You’d better bring that.”

 

\---

 

Jane drives them back to her flat. Being on the wagon has its advantages. She looked over to the dozing woman in the passenger seat and smiles to herself.  
"Eve!" She calls out over the hum of the radio, reaches a hand out, strokes it lightly down Eve’s thigh, "Shall I just drop you home?"  
"Mmm," Eve mumbles, "No, nope. I'm awake. I'm awake." She sits up straighter, "Sorry," she laughs, looks around her, "Are you okay to drive?"  
"Teetotal," Jane explains, "Recovering alcoholic."  
"Oh shit," Eve gasps, "I bought you scotch."  
"Didn't drink it," Jane says, matter-of-factly, "but I did very much appreciate the sentiment."  
Eve scrunches up her nose and giggles -- Jane finds it almost alarmingly endearing -- Eve's eyes are dark, shining, lids heavy, she reaches out one of those elegant hands and places it over Jane's. There's that spark, Jane thinks, and from the look on Eve's face, she feels it too.

 

\---

 

The flat is dark. Jane turns on a table lamp by the sofa, allowing a soft orange glow to grow. She shrugs off her coat and kicks off her shoes. 

"Make yourself at home," she says, gesturing towards the sofa, but Eve is standing in front of Jane's bookcase, head tilted, browsing. Psychoanalysing, no doubt. Jane smiles. She knows Eve is smart -- ferociously so -- it's part of the attraction. Jane isn't as shallow as she sometimes pretends to be. She heads to the kitchen.

“You know the first time I retired I just snuck out,” Jane says, carrying through a large glass of water and lime for herself and an empty tumbler for Eve, setting it down next to the bottle of scotch from the bar. 

Eve eyes the bottle guiltily. “I don’t have to have that,” she says, “Not if it’s…”  
“It’s fine,” Jane says, shaking her head, “It wasn’t my poison, anyway. And I wouldn’t dream of getting between a girl and her single malt.” She laughs and Eve smiles, relaxing. 

Eve steadies herself against the bookshelves as she reaches down, lifts her trouser leg and unzips her right boot. Jane hums approval and Eve looks up at her through her fringe, sliding a stockinged foot from the leather, and reaching to remove the left, “They’re a bastard to run in, but the satisfaction of making men look up at me is worth the pain,” she explains, simply, discarding the boots beside the sofa. She walks slowly, hips swaying, over to where Jane is holding out a glass to her, maintains eye contact, and deliberately brushes her fingers against Jane’s as she takes the drink.

“So. The first time you retired?” Eve asks, voice low, standing distractingly close. She smells amazing.  
“I didn’t jump, I was pushed, and it didn’t take. I took a sabbatical — some time for myself — went back six months later,” Jane explains, distractedly. It's not the whole truth, but now is not the time for confessions of that kind. As she talks, Jane tries not to stare at Eve’s mouth, the effort is in vain.

It’s at this moment that Jane realises, to her utter delight, she has underestimated Eve Granger, and she almost laughs out loud. Eve isn’t demure and ordered and uptight. She isn’t some burgeoning ball of sexual frustration that Jane is going to unleash to much relief and grateful thanks. There’s no genuine timidity here. Eve is a predator, just like Jane, and this is some sort of exquisite, softly-spoken artifice. Everything she does is calculated, meticulously so. Jane feels a sort of slack-jawed awe at this feat. She’s impressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: The titles are lyrics from Kathleen Edwards' beautiful song, Hockey Skates.


	3. we can talk like we are friends, going over it all again

Jane watches Eve in profile as she sips her wine. Marvels at her sharp nose, her high cheekbones, her tense brow. Wonders at the forces in play to create this specific permutation, this exact woman. She reaches over, gently sweeps her fingers through the hair at Eve’s temple — blonde, yes, but with strands of silver — pushes it gently behind her ear, exposing her neck.

“What’s bothering you?” Jane asks. She’s brusque, as always, but there’s warmth in her voice.  
“I’m fine.” Eve says, unconvincingly. Jane repeats the motion, sweeping her fingers through Eve’s hair. Allows her fingertips to brush down the soft skin of Eve’s neck, feels Eve shiver. Jane leans forwards, takes Eve’s glass from her and sets it down on the coffee table in front of them, leans forward again, presses her lips to Eve’s neck, slightly below her ear, “Liar,” she whispers against Eve’s warm skin.  
Eve acquiesces, “It’s work.”  
“I’m shocked!” Jane is aiming for levity, but worries she might have fallen short. “Tell me about it?” She asks, gently.  
Eve smiles — a tight, barely perceptible curling of her lips — because this never ceases to amaze her. Jane knows her. She can say anything about work, censor nothing, and Jane will listen, will understand. Won’t recoil. It’s rare, and it’s indefinably valuable to Eve. She slides her fingers between Jane’s.

“I’ve just caught a case — old case, new evidence — and it’s so like a case of mine from Manchester, it’s…it’s bringing up uncomfortable memories.” Eve explains.  
“Well,” Jane says carefully, sensing Eve’s reticence to talk, “you can tell me all about it…” she smooths her thumb across the back of Eve’s hand, makes sure she has her attention, “or I can run you a bath, pour you another glass of this — frankly delightful — Sancerre, and then I can see what I can do” Jane licks her lips, “about…distracting you from those memories.”

Eve turns to look at Jane sitting sideways on the sofa next to her, her foot tucked up under herself in a way that Eve just know’s she’s going to regret when they move. Jane’s silver cashmere sweater hangs loosely around her shoulders, revealing the delicate skin of her décolletage. She’s quite breathtaking, “What did I do to deserve you?” Eve asks.  
“Ah,” Jane laughs, a filthy, throaty laugh, “you are not the first to ask that, my love, but it’s usually being yelled at me by someone making for the door.”  
Eve nods, smiles with moist eyes, blinking, she say, “Bath, please.”

 

\---

 

In the deep, indigo darkness of their bedroom a calm settles that contrasts starkly with the torrid, reverent, writhing of bodies from earlier that evening. Eve can’t sleep. She’s laid awake for hours with Jane’s palm pressed flat to her stomach, anchoring her. A slight catch in Jane’s breath, and Eve knows she is awake too, even just for a moment.  
“It’s the Brian Wicklow case,” Eve whispers, “That’s the memories…that’s what this case brings to mind.”  
“I figured,” Jane’s voice is heavy, thick with sleep.  
“I thought it was all behind me,” Eve murmurs, barely awake herself, but somehow, still, so very far from sleep.  
Jane pushes herself up on her elbow, leans over Eve and presses a firm kiss to her lips, “It is. Baby, I promise you it is.”

 

\---

 

Eve is up first, as usual. She’s dressed and sliding into her coat as Jane pads downstairs.  
“Early start? How are you this morning?” Jane asks, sliding an arm around Eve’s waist, under the heavy wool of her coat. Eve doesn’t soften, she stands rigid, awkwardly.  
“Fine.” Eve says.  
Jane is a little taken aback, “We’re back to that?”  
“I just…I just don’t want it here. I don’t want to talk about any of it here. Not at home.” Eve tries to explain, she won’t make eye contact and Jane feels it’s probably diplomatic to let this drop for now.  
She stands back from Eve, allows her to button her coat and wrap her wide scarf several times around her neck. Eve kisses Jane’s cheek, “I’ll see you later,” she whispers, and heads for the door.

 

\---

 

Taff visits a couple of times a year when Jane first retires. His kids are still local, and he drops by when he visits them. He’s possibly the closest thing she had to a friend on the squad when she left. He was part of the old guard, like she was, only he was more comfortable with adapting to new ideas. 

He turns up with flowers this time. Shrugs, apologises, says he felt like he shouldn’t come empty-handed and what else was he going to bring, wine? Jane laughs. Addiction isn’t funny. Of course it isn’t. But watching people try to circumnavigate the elephant in the room is fucking hilarious. She talks about this in AA sometimes, where they’re used to her outbursts. And her incessant swearing. They’re used to her obtuse thought processes causing the normally staid room to, occasionally, erupt into raucous laughter. Jane was never one to pull her punches.

She fills a vase with cruelly cold water (it’s February, and bitter outside) and plunges the stems of Taff’s flowers into the swirling liquid.

“How’ve you been?” Taff asks, kindly. Jane braces herself. She and the Welshman have known each other for fifteen years, but they have mostly existed in companionable silence, discussing work with ease, but little else. So it’s a relief when Cagney, one of two six month old chocolate labradors Jane and Eve have just adopted, comes bounding in to the kitchen. Cagney is all exuberance and joy, Jane finds it affecting. Sometimes it makes her eyes sting with newly-forming tears. A dog is the very opposite of a murder. A dog is joyousness and possibility, existing in the moment. The dogs were Eve’s idea.

As Taff makes a show of scratching Cagney’s belly, and the pup wriggles excitedly beneath his fingers, he asks about the house. Jane makes three steaming mugs of tea. She leaves one one the Aga, brings the other two over to the kitchen table.

“It was my Dad’s,” Jane explains, setting a mug in front of Taff. “My sister was supposed to have it, but…well, she changed her mind.”  
“It’s a nice place. Big, though.” Taff glances around.  
“Too big for one, you mean?” Jane sits opposite him, blows gentle ripples across the surface of her tea. Taff shuffles uncomfortably.  
“I was thinking we could get dinner, sometime…” He studies his hands.  
“What?” Laughs Jane, “Like a date?”  
Taff flushes red, and Jane regrets laughing, “that’s very kind of you Taff, but I’m not alone. I have someone. Live. I live with someone.”  
He’s surprised by that, but he clocks the third mug of tea Jane made as the catch on the front door sounds, and he can hear footsteps in the hall.

Eve bursts through the door, “I’m freezing my tits off,” she announces, pressing a kiss to Jane’s hair, and shedding her gloves as she reaches for the third mug of tea. Taff’s still looking at Jane and she can see the exact moment when the penny drops.  
“Darling, this is Alun Simms,” she says, and Eve smiles as she acknowledges the man sat opposite Jane, “He’s my old DS. Taff, this is Eve.”  
“Eve,” he says, reaching across the table, offering his hand, “Pleasure.”  
“Are you still on the force?” Eve asks, shaking his hand apologetically with hers still cold from outside.  
“South Wales,” he replies. And it’s then that Eve catches the warm lilt to his voice.  
She nods, “Lovely,” she turns to Jane, “Sorry about earlier.” She says.  
“It’s forgotten,” Jane says honestly.  
Eve smiles, “If you’ll excuse me I am going to get changed.” She squeezes Jane’s shoulder affectionately as she leaves the room.

Taff and Jane sit in silence for a few moments before he say, “Well, that is definitely not what I was expecting.”  
“If I’m honest, Taff. Me neither,” Jane admits. And they both laugh in spite of themselves.  
“Bloody hell Jane, she’s…” Taff tails off, not sure of proper etiquette here.  
“Isn’t she?” Says Jane, conspiratorially. And suddenly all the tension is gone, and they are back to their old, good-natured chatter.

They spend an hour reminiscing before Eve returns to the kitchen in a fluffy white robe, hair wet and skin flushed and glistening. Taff rises stiffly, and takes his leave. He’d freely admit that he’d love to stay and watch Eve wander around in that robe, tied tight around her slim waist, rolling hips swinging as she walks. But there’s something about the way his old friend is watching Eve that makes him feel as if he is intruding, and her attention is no longer his anyway, he can’t compete. So he risks the sentimentality of kissing Jane on the cheek, for old time’s sake, and tells her she’s a lucky woman, before heading out into the dark, February evening.

Looking back through the window into the glowing warmth of the kitchen, as he starts his car, Taff is transfixed. He can see Jane, sitting before Eve, carefully untying the belt on her robe. He sees her face — utter ecstasy — as her eyes move across Eve’s body. And he forces himself to drive away, for decorum’s sake, as her sees Jane dip her head, as Eve’s eyes slam closed and her mouth becomes wide with unheard moans.


	4. The same old face is saying hi, and I don’t care

“Des rang,” Jane calls down the hallway as Eve attempts to wrestle herself from her coat whilst petting the two adoring dogs at her feet.

“Des?” Eve is startled, confused, “Rang here? Did you speak to him?”

She’s walking into the kitchen now, smoothing down her sweater and carefully stepping over Lacey to reach her usual cup of tea, waiting for her on the Aga.

“He left a message on the answerphone,” Jane says, theatrically. She seems amused, “the language is _quite_ colourful.”   
“What’s he said?” Eve asks. Still somewhat incredulous that her ex-husband has infiltrated this bubble of happiness she’s found for herself. Even his name doesn’t belong. Not here.   
“He’s not exactly enlightened, is he?” Jane asks.   
“Not exactly,” Eve sips her tea, “I expect Peter’s told him about us…”   
Jane nods. Eve’s son had visited at Christmas. He was a polite young man, clearly adored his mother — something they instantly had in common — and had made a good impression on Jane. His father less so.   
“I’m sorry,” Eve says, quietly.   
“For what?” “Well, you shouldn’t have to listen to that at—“   
“At what?” Asks Jane, indignantly, “At my age?”   
“At home, you idiot.” Eve says, affectionately.   
“Oh,” Jane feels a little foolish, “I’ve heard worse.”   
“I’m sure you have, and probably said worse, knowing you!” Eve smiles, and Jane is thankful that Eve seems less upset by all of this than Jane was expecting.   
“He wasn’t very creative in his use of slurs,” Jane says, mock disappointment in her voice, “I expected more. I shall have to give him some pointers.”   
“What did he have?” Eve asks, she sips her tea, her eyes alight with mirth. It makes a familiar warmth spread through Jane’s chest.   
“The usual. Dykes. Rug munchers.”   
“Oh, that’s weak,” Eve laughs, “Didn’t bring his A game, did he?”   
“What else could he’ve gone with?” Jane muses, “Bean flicker?”   
“Minge muncher,” says Eve.   
“Nice.” Jane gives it a little thought, “Todger dodger.”   
“Eww. That is horrible.” Eve is almost wheezing, trying not to give in to her laughter, because she knows once she does neither of them will be able to talk.   
“I know!” Jane laughs, throwing her head back, “I know, I’m sorry. What did you ever see in the guy?”   
“Dunno, really.” Eve’s shrugs, she thinks for a moment, “just wanted to be normal, have something normal in my life.”   
Jane reached across the kitchen table and takes Eve’s hand between hers, “Oh sweetheart, there’s nothing normal about you. Normal doesn’t come close. You’re…you’re extraordinary.”

 

* * *

 

Later, as they’re cooking together. Side by side, Jane washing vegetables and Eve slicing them ready to roast in the Aga, Jane bumps Eve’s shoulder gently with her own. “It was good to hear you laugh,” Jane says.   
“I’m sorry,” Eve says, and Jane’s heart sinks a little, because she didn’t intend to make Eve feel guilty, “I’ve not been doing much of that lately, have I? I said I didn’t want to bring work home, this case. But I do. I bring it home and I just keep it in my head to keep it away from you. I brought silence.“ She looks at Jane and sees a small smile play across her lips, “But you figure that out already, right?”   
“I do have a couple of years on you, darling.” Jane teases, eager to retain the evening’s levity. Not wanting Eve to dwell on the darkness that’s been sitting heavily between them this past week.

 

* * *

 

Once dinner has been eaten and they’ve completed their usually highly choreographed routine of cleaning up and tidying away, Jane and Eve sit on their comfy, sagging sofa as the wood-burner crackles satisfyingly and the dogs snore. Jane has her feet in Eve’s lap, she’s re-reading and old Deborah Moggach novel she found at the book exchange in the village hall, and Eve seems engrossed in a 48 day report.

“I’m still sure I’ve read this one before,” Jane muses, “But there’s bits I don’t remember.”  
Eve looks up, perches her glasses on top of her head in a way the Jane finds breathtaking, “Which one is it?” She asks.  
“Close Relations.” Jane says, lifting the book towards Eve to make her point.  
“Was on the telly.” Eve says, returning her glasses to their rightful position.  
“Was it?”   
“Yeah. What? Ninety seven. Kate Buffery was in it. And that bloke who played Beck in Cracker.”  
“Lorchan Cranitch?”  
“That’s him. And Amanda Redman.”  
“Was she? Oh, so maybe I haven’t read it before.” Jane says, puzzled., “I thought it seemed familiar. How come you can remember that?”   
“You’ve got a few years on me, darling.” Eve laughs at her own joke whilst Jane feigns indignation.

Eve returns to her report. Over her reading glasses, Jane watches as Eve flips through the pages, clearly not taking anything in.   
“Everything okay?” She asks, “Do you want some tea?”  
“I’ll make it,” Eve offers but as she goes to stand Jane catches her wrist and pulls Eve towards her.  
“Talk to me?” She asks, “please don’t shut me out.”  
Eve blinks a few times, Jane thinks she might just have got through to her, but when Eve pulls her wrist free, Jane lets her go.  
“I’ll make some tea,” Eve reaffirms.

 

* * *

 

When she sits back down, placing steaming mugs in front of herself and Jane, Eve has the tension in her shoulders of a woman who knows she’s carrying a debt she can’t pay.  
“It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you,” she says, attention solely on the mug before her.  
“I know.” Jane reaches over, smooths a warm hand over Eve’s tense back.  
“I made you chamomile,” Eve nods towards Jane’s mug, untouched on the table before her.  
“So I can sleep?” Jane asks.  
Eve nods.

Jane watches her. Marvels at her, right now, so vulnerable and unsure. There are things that they don’t say to each other, and ‘I love you’ is one of them. Jane knows she feels it. But then the words seem so inadequate for how she feels about Eve. She’s said them to people before, and meant them. Yes. Absolutely meant them. But this thing with Eve…Well, it doesn’t seem right to use those words for this. They are inadequate. This is more consuming than any feeling she has ever had, sometimes it’s terrifying. Jane could lose herself in Eve, she knows, and she’d do it gladly. But then this magical thing happens: Eve looks at her with chestnut eyes that have a singular intensity, and Jane knows it’s the same for her. It always was, right from the beginning. _Is there something stronger than love?_  Jane muses. Witchcraft, maybe.


End file.
